October Is The Fallen Leaf, But It

Two Sounds Of Autumn Are Unmistakable...the Hurrying Rustle Of Crisp Leaves Blown Along The Street...by A Gusty Wind, And The Gabble Of A Flock Of Migrating Geese.

No Winter Lasts Forever, No Spring Skips Its Turn. April Is A Promise That May Is Bound To Keep, And We Know It.

Listen To It, And You Are Hearing The Mighty Currents Of The Air Rushing Down The Latitudes Of The Earth, Currents From The Mackenzie And The Athabasca And The Saskatchewan, And From The Prairies And The White Tundra. It Is A Homeless Wind, Forever On The Move.

If The Voice Of The Brook Was Not The First Song Of Celebration, It Must Have Been At Least An Obbligato For That Event.

Summer Ends, And Autumn Comes, And He Who Would Have It Otherwise Would Have High Tide Always And A Full Moon Every Night.